Page 8 of Oops I Fell For The Rancher Next Door

Inside, I lean against the kitchen counter. Breathe.

This is not happening. I did not move to the middle of nowhere to develop a thing for the rancher next door. I came here to be alone. To prove I can trust my own decisions because the last time I trusted my judgment about a man, I lost everything.

Four years of marriage. Four years of being slowly convinced that my instincts were wrong, my feelings were overreactions. Kevin didn't hit me. Never raised a hand. He had a way of making my reality dissolve until his version was the only one left.

Cade is nothing like Kevin. Kevin was polish and strategy. Cade barely speaks. Kevin performed generosity for an audience. Cade stacks firewood at dawn when he thinks I'm asleep.

But Kevin didn't seem like Kevin at first either.

The sound of the post-hole digger hitting rocky ground carries through the open window. Rhythmic. Steady. A man doing work he promised to do without being reminded.

By five, the light is fading. His truck starts. From the window I watch him load tools, tie Buck to the trailer. His movements are easy. Nothing wasted.

He looks toward the cabin. I step back from the window.

The truck pulls out. Gone.

On my porch there's a paper bag. Inside: the missing board for my porch step. Pre-cut. Sanded smooth. Three nails on top, along with a folded note.

Measured the gap Tuesday. This should fit. Nails are galvanized so they won't rust. C

I stare at the note. He measured the gap Tuesday. Three days ago, while I was inside pretending not to watch. He looked at the broken step, went home, cut a board, sanded it, brought it back.

The tears come fast. Standing on my broken porch holding a board that fits exactly right, crying because a man noticed something I didn't mention and fixed it without being asked. The last time someone did that was so long ago I can't remember.

I install it myself. Twenty minutes, a hammer, and some crooked nails. When I'm done, the step is solid. No gap.

His truck comes back at six thirty. Headlights sweeping across my front yard as he turns up his drive across the property line. Going home for the night.

I'm off the porch before I think about it. Walking across the dark yard toward the fence. My feet know where the gate is now because I've been using it to check the pasture he told me to keep an eye on.

He's getting out of the truck when I reach his driveway. Sees me crossing from my side. Stops. Waits.

"You fixed my step."

"Left you the board. You fixed it yourself."

"You measured it three days ago."

He doesn't deny it. Just stands there in the falling dark with his keys in his hand, looking at me with those patient brown eyes.

"Why?" My voice cracks on the word and I hate it.

"Because it needed fixing."

"That's not..." I stop. Swallow. "People don't just fix things."

"Some do."

He's three feet away. Close enough to see the line of sawdust on his collar. Close enough to watch his jaw work as he looks at me standing in his driveway in the dark with tears drying on my face and no excuse for being here except the truth, which is that a piece of sanded wood broke something open in my chest that I've been holding shut for two years.

I close the distance. Two steps. My hands find the front of his flannel. His whole body goes rigid for one beat. Then his hands come up, slow, settling on my hips. Big palms. Warm through the fabric.

"Shelby."

"Don't talk."

I kiss him.